


Thanks, Glen

by Maplesyrup



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Cablanca, Cablanca Week 2020, Cuban french toast, F/M, Mutual Pining, Whiskey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23530798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: Written for Cablanca Week Day 2: Confession
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	Thanks, Glen

A drunk Benoit Blanc waltzed himself and his drink around the estate’s first-floor den, swaying dangerously close to the crackling fire.

Well, perhaps  _ drunk _ wasn’t exactly right, Marta thought as she sipped from her tumbler.  _ Absolutely shitfaced _ was probably the correct term. She watched him from her seat on the sofa with a wary eye, preparing to jump up and suffocate the flames if he indeed caught fire, despite the wobble in her own body from the strong liquor.

Marta had pillaged Harlan’s—well,  _ her— _ cellar to find something that would match the level of congratulations Benoit deserved for solving his one-hundredth case, and came back with a 1963 Glen Grant. Benoit’s jaw had dropped and so had Marta’s when he gave her an estimation of the price paid for the currently-dusty bottle. He’d pushed it back into her arms, shaking his head. She’d waved his protests away, insisting he deserved the vintage and besides, what use was owning a fancy cellar full of good booze if she wasn’t going to sample it once in a while?

Another murder had been solved by the now-legendary Benoit Blanc (what was it about New England and murders? All the snow must make people bored) and he’d cracked it in record time. Poor Trooper Wagner had been a fan before but now Benoit would forever be a god in his eyes. So, they’d peeled the wax seal off the bottle and toasted his success. And then toasted again. And again.

“Marta,” Benoit said, stopping abruptly to face her. His blue eyes were sleepy, though it did nothing to dim the intensity of their color. “This whiskey… is the best thing I have ever tasted.” He drained the last of the nearly sixty-year dram in his glass and plunked it down on the coffee table. “Now, come on, you,” he said, taking her tumbler and setting it on the table next to his. He extended a hand to her and she took it with some hesitation, letting out a small yelp when he tugged her close. 

“What are we doing?” She watched a slow, lazy smile curve his mouth as he pulled her body even closer, so that it was flush with his.

“Dancin’, o’course.” He scooped an arm around her back and picked up her hand to cradle in his own, the formal stance belied by the proximity of their bodies. He began to hum softly, pressing his cheek to her temple and swaying in a slow circle on the spot. She recognized the song; it was his favorite from the musical  _ Follies _ . He’d dramatically sung snippets of it here and there the week they first met, but she hadn’t heard it in a long time. And now, as he began to softly sing the words, a whole other emotion colored his voice.

“ _ The sun comes up, I think about you. The coffee cup, I think about you. I want you so, it’s like I’m losing my mind _ .” He stopped singing, pulling back just enough to look at her as their swaying gently ended. His eyes, bleary before, were suddenly clear, all that magnetic blue focused on her. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he crossed the small distance between them to press a soft, almost chaste kiss to her lips.

Marta’s whole body screamed  _ finally! _ but she willed herself to stay calm. They were both drunk as loons—though Benoit was worse off than her—and it was possible he was too inebriated to know what he was doing. Even so, she returned the pressure of his lips, giving him just a bit more but no further.

He ended the sweet kiss, bringing his gaze back to hers as he let go of her hand in favor of ghosting the backs of his fingers across her cheek. She slipped her free arm around his waist, relishing the light touch and trying not to close her eyes in pleasure.

“Oh, Marta,” he murmured, turning his hand to cup her cheek. “I love you so very much.”

Awareness shot through her, along with elation at his words, swiftly followed by uncertainty. Would he still feel that way about her in the morning? Was it just a drunken confession caused by the wrong mix of too much whiskey and close friendship? She longed to say it back but kept a tight leash on the words. She didn’t take them lightly, as some others did. A startled gasp erupted from her throat as Benoit suddenly swooped her up into his arms, carrying her bridal-style as he began to maneuver around the sofa.

“Benoit!” She clung to his neck. “Put me down; you’re too drunk for this!”

He chuckled. “Drunk I am, my dear. Most definitely. But I promise,” he continued, his tone suddenly serious as he met her eyes once more, “you are safe in my arms.”

True to his word, he managed to carry her to the stairs with nary a wobble.

“You can put me down now,” Marta repeated when they reached the landing. Benoit’s arms held firm and he shook his head.

“You are far too drunk to make it upstairs by yourself and I worry about you getting hurt.” The whiskey had thickened his accent; he spoke slow as molasses, the sound just as coffee-sweet. “I am taking you to your bed.”

A tingle of interest started between her thighs but she ignored it. He was taking her to her bed so she could  _ sleep _ , not have a drunken fumble in the dark. Though, those  _ did _ have their merits—

She mentally shook herself. There was no way in hell her first time with Benoit would happen while drunk. If it ever happened at all. 

_ Oh, god. _

He reached the door to her room, setting her down gently with a smile. She opened her mouth to thank him but his smile dropped and he wobbled where he stood, blinking and pressing a hand to his mouth. She reached out, grabbing his biceps to steady him. She ignored the delightful bulge of muscle beneath his shirt.

“Okay, there, Detective,” she said. “Breathe slow and deep for me, got it?” He nodded and she smiled. “Good. Now let me repay your gallant gesture by getting you to  _ your  _ bed.” She turned him gently and held onto one of his arms as they made their way down the hall to what had affectionately become ‘his’ room. They would often talk long into the night, losing track of time over stories and case theories. After one too many times being up until almost three in the morning, she declared she was assigning him a room for her own peace of mind and their mutually assured rest. If she happened to give him the nicest bedroom in the house, so what?

Managing to get his door open with little fuss, they ambled to his bed where she deposited him as gently as she could. He sat heavily before listing to the side and slumping down to the pillow with a groan. Marta shook her head in fond amusement, untying and removing his shoes. She set them by the end of his bed, then went back to check on Benoit.

Bleary-eyed once more, he stared vaguely into the middle distance but his attention snapped to her when she approached. He gave her a small smile, face half smushed into the pillow. She sank down so she was eye level with him, assessing his state with a little hum. A dilemma presented itself; she certainly wasn’t going to undress him but she didn’t exactly trust him to do it himself. She tapped her lips with a finger in thought.

“At least, let’s get your suspenders down,” she decided, “you’ll be more comfortable that way.”

“I agree, my most benevolent angel,” Benoit slurred, turning to his back. It took a few tries but he managed to slide his suspenders down on his own. He looked back to Marta, wagging a finger at her as he began to lose the battle with liquor-induced fatigue.

“You are the loveliest, sweetest… _ wonderfulest _ nurse I ever did see.” His arm dropped to his stomach and she watched as sleep finally overtook him. Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, careful not to wake him, she stroked a bit of hair back from his forehead.

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Benoit awoke to a splitting head and a mouth full of cotton. He groaned, opening his eyes the tiniest bit to check the time, but spotted a glass of water and some standard analgesics on the bedside table, instead. He struggled up to sitting, leaning back against the headboard with a tortured sigh. Really, he should know better by now than to drink like he did in his youth. It never ended well. Reaching for the water and pills, he downed both in quick succession before it registered that he was still in his clothes from the previous day, save for his shoes and suspenders.

Swallowing the last sip of water, he puzzled for a moment. Then it all came back to him in a slew of hazy memories. Marta and the whiskey, celebrating his successfully closed case, the fire, dancing, then— 

He thumped his head against the wall once and glared at the ceiling. “I didn’t. Tell me I  _ didn’t _ .”

But he had. And now that he’d awoken, there was no choice but to face the music, as it were. First, he thought as he glanced down at his wrinkled attire, in disgust with himself, he’d have a shower, a shave and a vigorous brushing of the teeth. It was bad enough that he got stupid drunk and then told Marta that he loved her  _ while  _ stupid drunk. He didn’t need to add hungover, unkempt, and reeking of stale liquor to his list of sins.

Well, the hangover he couldn’t help, but the rest of it he could. He shoved himself out of bed and towards the en-suite bathroom, intending on a shower hot enough to steam away the aftereffects of too much good alcohol.

Once finished, he grabbed the pajamas he kept in the guest room dresser but then thought better of it. She would probably want him out as soon as possible after the position he put her in last night. He rubbed a hand over his face. What a damned  _ mess _ he’d made of things. Sighing heavily, he opened another drawer and pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans and his favorite henley, threw them on, and went to face his fate.

The scents of cinnamon and coffee were redolent in the air as he descended to the first floor. Marta, still in  _ her _ favorite pajamas, was humming something sweet-sounding as he quietly made his way into the kitchen. She stood at the stove, her profile to him, and flipped something in a large pan. It sizzled and a pleased smile crossed her face.

He could watch her forever, he thought, and never get tired of seeing that delightful woman move about her world. Dear God, he wanted to be a part of it with her. The thought brought him back to grim reality, and he gave a tentative knock on the wall so as not to frighten her.

Marta turned, her face breaking into a bright smile as she saw him, her green eyes sparkling.

“You’re up!” She slid a few things from the pan onto a plate and handed it to him. “Just in time, too. Here. All the stuff is on the counter.”

He looked down at the plate, thick slices of pan-fried bread were in a haphazard pile and a divine smell wafted up on whorls of steam. He raised his eyes to her, opening his mouth to make his deep apologies for the previous night but she cut him off with a little frown.

“Go,” she said, waving the spatula for emphasis, “sit and eat before it gets cold!” She scooped some bread onto her own plate and made her way to the breakfast bar where indeed she had assembled all the trimmings. Syrup, butter, coffee, orange juice, even a little dish of powdered sugar. She took a seat and he joined, albeit reluctant to sit so closely to her.

He gave up talking for the moment, deciding to enjoy what she’d made before she no doubt kicked his sorry ass out for being, well, an ass. He leaned over the plate, inhaling the scents of cinnamon and vanilla.

“This looks wonderful, Marta.” He cut into a piece and forked a bit into his mouth. Homey flavors and a bit of sweet crunch had him moaning in enjoyment as he looked at her with wide eyes. “What is this?”

“Torejas.” Marta grinned at him. “Cuban french toast.”

“I have never had anything like it.” He took another bite. “Is that caramelized sugar?”

Marta nodded, her smile turning secretive. “That’s the trickiest part. It’s not really traditional but my mother made them that way growing up. You have to cook them all the way through first, and then quickly dip them in sugar and put them back in the pan before the butter burns.” He chewed, watching her gesture as she described the obviously quite beloved dish.

“If you get it right,” she said, spearing a piece off her own plate and gesturing at him, “it’s like the sugar topping on crème brûlée.” She took the bite off her fork and chewed.

He couldn’t help his answering smile. “That’s quite clever.”

“I think so, too,” she said, returning to her plate. “Oh, there’s also a bit of rum in there, because why not?”

That bit of information brought him back to the dreary thoughts he’d come downstairs with. He took the coffee cup in front of him and filled it, trying to settle himself. After a few sips, he set the mug down and turned to her.

“Marta, I have something I need to say to you.”

She looked up with wide eyes, having just put another bite in her mouth. She chewed slowly then swallowed, putting her silverware down carefully and turning to him. “What did you want to talk about?”

He took a deep breath. “Last night. I…owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“My behavior. It was…well, the height of uncouth. I hold myself to a much higher standard and don’t know how I lost control. I am sorry.”

Martha laughed through her nose. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. It’s okay.”

He sighed. “No, it’s not. The things I said to you—”

“Benoit, stop,” she interrupted, her voice pained, “I told you it was okay. You were drunk. Everyone says things they don’t mean when drunk.” She offered him a weak smile.

He shook his head. “No, Marta. You don’t understand.” Now or never, old man, he thought, reaching for her hands and cradling them in his. Pleading blue eyes met wide green.

“I meant what I said. Every word.” He gave her hands a squeeze. “What I am regretful of is the context in which they were said.” He dropped his head with a humorless laugh. “God knows spitfire drunk is not the way I wanted to make that confession.”

Marta removed her hands from his and he continued, despite how it hurt to watch her pull away. 

“I understand. It’s shocking and disrespectful and an abuse of our friendship.” He raised his head. “Marta, I-”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off as she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his in a full, lush kiss. Her body was snug in the vee of his spread legs, giving her easy access to ravish him with her mouth. He slid his arms around her, squeezing her close, and surrendered.

After a few moments, she slowed the kiss to a stop and he wondered if he looked as dazed as he felt. She pulled back a bit, giving him a sweet, relieved smile. 

“That is,” he paused as his brain collected itself, “not the reaction I was expecting.”

She giggled, the sound throaty and delicious and he tightened his arms around her once more. “What were you expecting?” she asked.

“To be thrown out on my ass, if I’m honest.”

She burst into merry laughter and a few chuckles escaped him as well. “Thrown out? Oh my god, you silly man.” She calmed but still beamed at him. “Can’t you see it every time I look at you? How in love with you I am?” She hugged him, squeezing hard. “Benoit, I  _ love _ you. I have for months, but I figured you just wanted friendship so I left it alone.”

He pulled back from her, false affront on his face. “Do you mean to tell me we could have been doing this far sooner than now if we hadn’t been such dummies?”

She nodded, smoothing hair off his forehead gently. “Guess we’re both pretty lousy, huh?”

He smiled devilishly at her. “Oh, I’ll show you lousy, Miss Cabrera.” In one smooth motion, he slid from his seat and picked her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist with a little squeal, her arms holding tight as she pressed more kisses to his mouth. He turned, carefully walking them towards the stairs.

“What about breakfast?” she halfheartedly wailed. 

“We’ll make more later,” he said. “Right now, I have lots of lost time to make up for with the very pretty lady in my arms.”

Her answering laugh rang through the foyer as he ascended the stairs, holding her tightly with no intention of ever letting her go.

**Author's Note:**

> Ayyyyy :D
> 
> The title is stupid, forgive me.


End file.
